them both as the Wolf springs OVER Lord Blackgore , Alphonse screaming with hatred and disgust and, of course, a dash of unbridled puppet terror
**
As the Wolf's paws touch down, ka -thump, Alphonse sees their salvation clearly in the moonlight -- a sewer pipe sticking out of the grassy bank.
Of course. The sewers, stretching all the way to Paris. Fetid, but preferable to being sucked dry by Vampyres .
The Wolf sees it too and leaps over the rickety railing. They splash into the suffocatingly cold Siene , Alphonse -- having stuck the twin pistols back into his sash mid jump-- clinging to the Wolf's neck, and within a few seconds they are at the pipe, and the Wolf clambers into its reeking mouth, out of the moonlight-glare.
Then they're moving again, splashing through ripe -- lucky he can't smell it -- sewer-muck, Alphonse's harlequin cap brushing corrugated steel.
He doesn't know how much time has passed or how many sharp left and right turns they've made in the ink-blackness -- presumably the panting Wolf can see well enough in the dark not to crash at the turns -- but in the end Alphonse breathes fresh air and glimpses light. The Wolf stops, and he lets go of her neck and slides off.
It's another sewer opening, and peering outside the pipe-mouth Alphonse sees the lit up Ile de la Cite and moonlit coal barges moving on the smooth, heavy river current. The moon looks fabulous.
Ah, Paris,
Something clinks in the passage behind them. Alphonse whips the sword free from its cane, turning to meet an anticipated attack from Lord or Lady Blackgore -- yet no such attack materializes. It was probably a rat.
He hears the surging river current, bullfrogs croaking, distant bells -- that's all.
The White Wolf shakes herself , soaking Alphonse with cold sewer filth. She's shivering. Alphonse lays a wooden hand on her muzzle, and she licks it, warmly.
He can still hardly believe their luck.
Pont Neuf
Dawn -- a sooty Paris sunrise -- finds Alphonse wide awake on a stone parapet under the dark arch of the Pont Neuf by the sluggishly moving Seine, a little girl with fiery blonde curls tucked into his wooden arms.
They're both filthy, and must reek of Paris sewage. He's wrapped the little girl in newspapers and his jacket, or she'd be totally naked.
His pine wood body can't possibly warm her flesh -- she's just clinging to him for mental comfort, the way one holds a doll. Shivering, her cheeks are almost blue.
Alphonse glances around, looking for tinder.
Light a fire, he thinks. Or the girl might die.
Sure. Without matches, flint or steel?
A barge glides past. A dog standing on a pile of coal begins woofing at the huddled wolf-girl and puppet boy.
Even the faintest sounds are ice-clear in this glowing air. Alphonse ducks his head when the bargemen straights up to look around.
The dog quiets at the bargemen's sharp word. Silence.
**
Finally, Lucia yawns and wakes with a jump.
Looks up at Alphone's dirty pinewood face.
Touches it. Strokes it with her fingertips.
Alphonse shuts his pine eyelids with a click.
Oh rapture.
**
She'd changed back from a wolf into a bony little girl while they were still in the sewer pipe and Paris was cold, dark and bleak.
Then, she'd fainted from the stench.
He'd carried her, lurching on his stick legs, to the stone parapet under the bridge-curve. Covered her with drifting newspapers.
As the sun rose, he'd come close to utter despair.
How to save his parents now?
Those filthy Vampyres ! If only he'd been able to blast them to Hell!
**
Lucia now parted her dry lips, licked them, then spoke, Alphonse lowering his head to listen.
It was stilted French, with a comical Italian accent.
" Ou est nous?" Where are we.
Alphonse stood up and pointed to the river, to the sky. Then with his hands above his head he mimicked the Eiffel
**
As the Wolf's paws touch down, ka -thump, Alphonse sees their salvation clearly in the moonlight -- a sewer pipe sticking out of the grassy bank.
Of course. The sewers, stretching all the way to Paris. Fetid, but preferable to being sucked dry by Vampyres .
The Wolf sees it too and leaps over the rickety railing. They splash into the suffocatingly cold Siene , Alphonse -- having stuck the twin pistols back into his sash mid jump-- clinging to the Wolf's neck, and within a few seconds they are at the pipe, and the Wolf clambers into its reeking mouth, out of the moonlight-glare.
Then they're moving again, splashing through ripe -- lucky he can't smell it -- sewer-muck, Alphonse's harlequin cap brushing corrugated steel.
He doesn't know how much time has passed or how many sharp left and right turns they've made in the ink-blackness -- presumably the panting Wolf can see well enough in the dark not to crash at the turns -- but in the end Alphonse breathes fresh air and glimpses light. The Wolf stops, and he lets go of her neck and slides off.
It's another sewer opening, and peering outside the pipe-mouth Alphonse sees the lit up Ile de la Cite and moonlit coal barges moving on the smooth, heavy river current. The moon looks fabulous.
Ah, Paris,
Something clinks in the passage behind them. Alphonse whips the sword free from its cane, turning to meet an anticipated attack from Lord or Lady Blackgore -- yet no such attack materializes. It was probably a rat.
He hears the surging river current, bullfrogs croaking, distant bells -- that's all.
The White Wolf shakes herself , soaking Alphonse with cold sewer filth. She's shivering. Alphonse lays a wooden hand on her muzzle, and she licks it, warmly.
He can still hardly believe their luck.
Pont Neuf
Dawn -- a sooty Paris sunrise -- finds Alphonse wide awake on a stone parapet under the dark arch of the Pont Neuf by the sluggishly moving Seine, a little girl with fiery blonde curls tucked into his wooden arms.
They're both filthy, and must reek of Paris sewage. He's wrapped the little girl in newspapers and his jacket, or she'd be totally naked.
His pine wood body can't possibly warm her flesh -- she's just clinging to him for mental comfort, the way one holds a doll. Shivering, her cheeks are almost blue.
Alphonse glances around, looking for tinder.
Light a fire, he thinks. Or the girl might die.
Sure. Without matches, flint or steel?
A barge glides past. A dog standing on a pile of coal begins woofing at the huddled wolf-girl and puppet boy.
Even the faintest sounds are ice-clear in this glowing air. Alphonse ducks his head when the bargemen straights up to look around.
The dog quiets at the bargemen's sharp word. Silence.
**
Finally, Lucia yawns and wakes with a jump.
Looks up at Alphone's dirty pinewood face.
Touches it. Strokes it with her fingertips.
Alphonse shuts his pine eyelids with a click.
Oh rapture.
**
She'd changed back from a wolf into a bony little girl while they were still in the sewer pipe and Paris was cold, dark and bleak.
Then, she'd fainted from the stench.
He'd carried her, lurching on his stick legs, to the stone parapet under the bridge-curve. Covered her with drifting newspapers.
As the sun rose, he'd come close to utter despair.
How to save his parents now?
Those filthy Vampyres ! If only he'd been able to blast them to Hell!
**
Lucia now parted her dry lips, licked them, then spoke, Alphonse lowering his head to listen.
It was stilted French, with a comical Italian accent.
" Ou est nous?" Where are we.
Alphonse stood up and pointed to the river, to the sky. Then with his hands above his head he mimicked the Eiffel
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